


Neverland

by TheCookieOfDoom



Series: Neverland [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meet-Cute, Running Away, The tags make this sound so awful but i swear it's Soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27352411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: Running away is easier than he thought it would be... After leaving his abusive father, Mitch ends up stranded in Beacon Hills, California, far away from his intended destination of Los Angeles. There he eventually meets one Stiles Stilinski who completely turns his life upside down. And, as it would happen, for the better.
Relationships: Mitch Rapp/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Neverland [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997584
Comments: 24
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy NaNoWriMo everyone! Yesterday I said I wouldn't post this, today I'm immediately breaking that promise. Oh well. I've been waiting 2 *years* to write this fic, so we're going to see what happens this month. 
> 
> Enjoy~
> 
> CW: Child Abuse; this is the only chapter it explicitly comes up, everything else will be referenced.

Mitch twisted on the sink taps but no water came out of the faucet.

“Come on,” he groaned at the ceiling. Of course, his dad was late on the water bill. _Of-fucking-course._ He still needed to take a shower, too. _Guess I’ll take one at school,_ Mitch thought. He would have to wait until after his third period gym class.

For now, Mitch went and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge so he could at least brush his teeth. His dad was nowhere to be found, probably gone to work already. Or the bar.

After school Mitch took a pile of unread mail out of the mailbox and flipped through the envelopes. He found the water bill and several others, with glaring red PAST DUE stamps. He wasn’t surprised; this wasn’t the first time his dad had been late paying the bills.

Mitch swiped his dad’s wallet from where it had been carelessly tossed on the table, next to his keys, and took out one of the credit cards. He tore open the water bill first and searched for the number he needed to call to take care of it.

Since the bill was in his father’s name, James, the woman that answered wouldn’t let him pay.

“My dad’s not available right now,” Mitch said, “Can’t I just do it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s company policy. Sorry, kiddo.”

“I thought it was company policy to collect,” Mitch said bitterly, before hanging up. He knew the bored woman on the other end of the line had no interest in helping him. Why should she care, she wasn’t the one that currently had no running water. And it’s not like he could argue with _company policy._ Mitch dropped the phone and raked his hands through his hair. _“Fuck.”_

_Okay, this is fine, I can deal with this. I’ve dealt with worse._

Mitch searched through the other envelopes to find the electric bill. He was able to pay that one—and thank God they hadn’t turned off the electricity, too—and the internet, which allowed him to go online to pay the water bill. _Fuck you,_ Mitch thought as he finalized the payment.

Mitch put the credit card back in its slot and dropped his dad’s wallet back where he’d found it, then threw away the paid bills and junk mail on his way to his room. He wasn’t fast enough to avoid confrontation; his dad must have gotten a notification about the spent funds.

“The fuck did you do, you little prick?” James demanded. “You spending my money?”

“I took care of the bills. Someone had to,” Mitch said. His dad shoved him into the wall for his tone.

“You better start showing me some respect.”

Mitch shoved his dad’s hand out of his face and spat, “Start earning it.” Mitch spoke before he could even think to hold back—there he went again, letting his mouth get him into trouble. Internally he cringed, but he stood his ground. There was nothing he could do when his father was on the warpath, anyway.

“You little—” Mitch didn’t get to hear the rest of what James said, caught by an unexpected left hook that sent him sprawling to the ground, his ears ringing at the impact and his eyes swimming with tears. Mitch blinked them back, thinking, _don’t cry, don’t you dare fucking crying._ He wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction.

Then his father kicked him in the stomach and Mitch wouldn’t _breathe._ He was going to puke.

“I should kick you out like I did with your whore mother,” James spat. “She thought she could leach off me for nothin’, too, and at least I got sex outta her. What do you do around here? Fuckin’ nothing.”

“Fuck you,” Mitch groaned, lying on the ground and trying to breathe through the pain. His father gave him one last kick for good measure, then went to angrily collect his wallet.

Mitch dragged himself to his feet and stumbled into his bedroom while his father’s attention was elsewhere, and struggled to push his dresser in front of the door. Hopefully it would give him some kind of warning if his dad came for him again, buy him enough time to climb out the window, or something. 

***

Mitch woke up on his bedroom floor.

For a minute he didn’t recognize where he was, his vision hazy and slow to focus. Then everything sharpened. His vision, his senses, his memory. He vaguely remembered passing out the night before. His skull pulsed with throbbing pain and his mouth tasted like blood, a small pool of it gathering on the yellowed hardwood beneath his mouth. Mementos no doubt left by his father.

Mitch’s vision swam when he picked himself up off the ground, barely managing to catch himself on the edge to the dresser to keep from falling again. He took a few careful, shallow breaths, and ignored the stabbing pain in his left side.

It took a minute for the room to stop spinning. Or maybe longer. Time felt out of sync around him, moving too fast and too slow at the same time. But when the world finally righted itself, he pried his dresser away from the door and slowly made his way to the bathroom down the hall, one hand braced against the wall and watching warily for any sign of his father. Hopefully the man would still be passed out drunk or too hungover to move yet.

 _Or maybe he finally drank himself to death,_ Mitch thought. _Wouldn’t that be nice._ He knew his luck wasn’t that good. The old bastard would probably stick around another sixty years just to spite him. Provided _Mitch_ even made it that long.

Once safely locked away in the small bathroom—although safety was relative, a hard lesson Mitch had learned years ago—he stood in front of the sink to stake stock of his injuries. His reflection looked back at him with hollow, dead eyes. The red mark on his jaw where his father’s fist caught him was purpling at the center, sure to bruise like a motherfucker. Mitch was used to it. He worked his jaw and touched the tender bruise, and it didn’t hurt too bad so he knew it wasn’t broken. Small mercies.

Mitch twisted the taps and cupped his hands under the cold spray to rinse his mouth out, spitting red. Running his tongue along his teeth showed that none of them were knocked loose this time. His father must have been having an off night.

Mitch washed the blood off his face and rubbed his jaw. _Will anyone at school ask about the bruises?_ He brushed the thought aside almost as soon as it crossed his mind; no one asked anymore. Not that he blamed them. He was getting into fights all the time at school, why would the bruises come as a surprise? For a delinquent like him, it was par for the course that his body would carry marks of violence.

After the blood was cleaned off Mitch turned his attention to the ache in his side, gingerly pulling his shirt up. A huge bruise spread over the left side of his ribs that made every breath hurt. He felt around the edges with his other hand, teeth clenched so hard against the pain he wouldn’t be surprised if they cracked. Hopefully his ribs weren’t broken; there was no way for him to be certain, since he couldn’t just turn up at the hospital to get them checked out. His dad might actually kill him if he did.

Mitch dropped his shirt and sighed shallowly. _I hate my fucking life._

***

Mitch counted it as a win for the day when he managed to escape his house and make it to the bus stop without having to interact with his father. The faded, grungy yellow school buss was already half-full of rowdy students by the time he was picked up, spread out all through the seats. Most were concentrated in the back; no one ever wanted to sit up front by the bus driver, but he didn’t mind. Mrs. J was nice. She usually chain smoked out the window while driving them in the morning, but Mitch couldn’t blame her; dealing with high school students at 7:00am probably warranted it.

He snagged the seat one row behind Mrs. J—so he wouldn’t get smoke blown back in his face—and was mostly left alone for the remainder of the ride. Minus the students that liked to shoulder-check him as they passed, walking away giggling after like it was the funniest thing in the world. On a normal day he would retaliate—hit back, cause a scene, land himself in detention. It was practically a scripted routine by now. But not today. Today, he was too tired and hurt to put in the effort.

At least until a small group of football players from the junior varsity team came clambering on. Or rather, one player in particular: Ronnie. Mitch had no idea why the other kid had it out for him—hell, it seemed like they’d just always been at each other’s throats.

Ronnie threw his football to a teammate at the back of the bus, and Mitch waited until it was returned to kick the back of Ronnie’s knees. He collapsed to the filthy floor, and missed the ball. Laughter rang out and the other teen’s face turned red with embarrassment and anger.

“My bad, I didn’t see you there,” Mitch said with a cocky smirk, practically daring Ronnie to come at him. He took his petty revenges where he could, even if he knew Ronnie would probably catch him after school.

“Watch yourself,” Ronnie spat at him with a nasty glare. Mitch just smile sweetly and gave him a sarcastic salute, knowing full well that Ronnie was going to beat his ass later. Or try to, at least. He may be a star player on the football team, but Mitch had always been the faster runner.

 _Do I really want to test that today, though?_ He could barely take a full breath, let alone run for his life. _Apparently, I do._

“Everyone settle down and take a seat,” Mrs. J called, shouting back at them with her rough, pack-a-day voice. The bus lurched into motion as she pulled back onto the road to continue onto the next stop.

Ronnie got up and started towards the back of the bus, but not before he could slap the back of Mitch’s head. He was halfway down the aisle before Mitch could turn around to strike back.

***

Mitch didn’t pretend to pay attention in home room. He rarely did—it’s not like college would ever be in the cards for him, regardless of what he did in school—and it wasn’t even entirely his fault. Who wanted to study English at 8:00am?

For the first fifteen minutes he at least took half-hearted notes, mostly to avoid drawing attention to himself for obviously not paying attention, but he was still so goddamn _tired._ The teacher’s inane lecture wasn’t helping, either. What was so important about scrutinizing every little detail about _The Great Gatsby,_ anyway? He was falling asleep, barely keeping himself upright with his chin in his hand, scribbling random doodles in his notebook.

At least he wasn’t the only one not paying attention. It was the last day before spring break; most students were quietly talking to each other about their plans for the week, texting, passing notes back and forth. Ronnie threw a few crumbled-up pieces of paper at him but Mitch ignored it; the attempt at antagonizing him was weak at best.

Eventually Ronnie gave up, after he was almost caught. Unlike Mitch, he _did_ have to keep his grades up and his record spotless, or else he’d risk getting kicked off the football team, and he couldn’t have that. Then he’d lose his golden boy status, and then what would he have? Nothing but a peacock attitude with nothing to back it up.

Pretty soon Mitch fell asleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

Towards the end of class, the teacher finally came over to wake him. He stood beside Mitch’s desk as if his mere presence should be enough to wake him, and shook Mitch’s shoulder when it wasn’t.

“ _Mr. Rapp,_ ” the teacher snapped.

“Fuck off,” Mitch mumbled, jerking his shoulder back. He sat up and saw everyone staring at him, including the angry, red-faced teacher.

“Detention,” the teacher said. “Not that I think it will help your attitude, but I will not tolerate your disrespectful behavior.”

“Whatever.” Mitch was pretty sure he had detention today anyway. They may as well name the building after him, at this point.

***

Detention was always held in the library, making students shelve the day’s returned books for an hour after school. Mitch didn’t mind. It beat writing lines for an hour like they used to do in middle school. Putting away the books kept him busy, and he’d had enough detention that he was familiar with the library’s layout by now. It never took him very long to get the carts of books returned to their places.

The librarian, Mrs. Robinson, kept a shrewd eye on all the students in her care, ever watchful for anyone that tried to enjoy detention too much. Some took the opportunity to fool around in the stacks and she was not having it. Mrs. Robinson seemed to have a soft spot for Mitch, though. She was the only faculty member that didn’t hate him. Of course, part of that was probably due to him not going out of his way to make trouble in her library. He served his sentence peacefully.

Mitch took longer putting all the books away—he was the only one in detention today—but he still had some time to kill, after. He spent it weaving through the stacks in search of a particular book. Of course, he knew exactly where it was, provided it hadn’t been checked out, but he wasn’t in a hurry. He took his time, trailing his fingertips over the worn spines. Half the library’s collection had to be older than he was.

Mitch eventually found the book exactly where he left it last time, the page he ended on still dog-eared to hold his place. He took it down and returned to one of the old chairs by the windows to read.

Lost in the worn pages, the reminder of the hour bled away. Mrs. Robinson let him know when his time was up but he didn’t react, and she didn’t push the issue. They had a mutual understanding: he made sure the books ended up where they needed to be, and she left him alone.

The book was the last of a series, and he wanted to finish it before school let out for spring break. It was almost another full hour before he returned it to its place on the shelf and said goodbye to Mrs. Robinson.

As Mitch left the library, he knew wouldn’t be returning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy~

Landing himself in detention wasn’t a long-term solution. it only served to briefly deny the inevitable. Sure, Mitch didn’t have to go home for an extra hour or two after school, but he’d have to face his father eventually. Unsurprisingly, the man wasn’t pleased when Mitch came slinking home from yet another detention, having to walk almost an hour since he missed the bus. A normal father—a better father—would’ve picked Mitch up at school, and probably scolded him on the way home. Instead James knocked him clear across the room almost as soon as he walked in the door. A harsh reminder that there was no way for him to win in the end. Either he was a model student and his father beat him just for existing, or he did everything he could to stay away from home as long as possible, and James beat him twice as bad.

 _Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,_ Mitch thought, watching his father amble into the small kitchen for a fresh beer, then into the small living room to kick his feet up and watch TV until he inevitably passed out. Mitch was already forgotten; he only existed when he was in trouble, or when James was looking for a fight. At least he got off easy this time.

Mitch headed to his own bedroom, his lip split and nose bleeding. He dumped his open backpack onto his bed, emptying out the school stuff to replace with some clothes. He took his toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom. There wasn’t much else he could take in the way of supplies. He’d have to figure out the rest once he left.

A while later Mitch quietly headed back out towards the living room, breathing a shallow sigh of relief once he saw his father was asleep out on the couch as per usual. Some inane rerun played on the old TV. Carefully, not even breathing for fear of waking his father up, Mitch took James’ wallet from the jacket discarded on the floor, and pocketed all the cash inside. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Hopefully it would be enough to buy him a ticket out of here, and with luck, James would just think he blew it on a stripper when he woke up in the morning.

If he was really lucky, Mitch would be long gone before James realized anything was missing.

It was only Thursday. If Mitch left now, the school would notify his father he never showed up for class, and all hell would break loose. He would have to finish out tomorrow before leaving. After that school would be out for spring break, and Mitch would have the week to get as far away as possible, before anyone noticed he was missing.

Escape was so close; he could almost _taste_ it. For now, Mitch made himself a sandwich—and decided to take the half-empty jar of peanut butter with, along with some bottles of water—then returned to his room, adrenaline making his heart point in his chest. _Just one more day, then I’m free._

***

Mitch barely slept Thursday night, too keyed up, and left for school long before James woke up. His father was off today, still sleeping off a hangover on the couch, surrounded by empty brown beer bottles, and he didn’t want to risk anything jeopardizing his mission.

It was still so early that Mitch had to walk to the bus top in the dark, and wait almost an hour for it to show up. He didn’t mind. The brisk early-spring air cut through his threadbare jacket, cool and refreshing, and the faint glow of the stars was beautiful.

He was _excited._ A dangerous and unfamiliar feeling; one he was timid to embrace, like that would be asking the universe to make something go wrong, but he liked the thrum of it in his veins. Mitch tentatively allowed himself to hope. So long as nothing awful happened today, he could conceivably be out of town by sundown.

 _Just a few more hours,_ he thought.

Just down the street the bus finally came puttering along, bringing with it the rising sun.

***

Mitch kept to himself throughout the day. He didn’t antagonize any of the teachers or his fellow students, and determinedly ignored Ronnie’s attempts to antagonize him. He successfully avoided drawing undo attention to himself. Or so he thought.

Not everyone believed Mitch’s sudden turn for the demure; his English teacher in particular, Mr. Nelson, watched him with suspicion for the entire class period, no doubt waiting to see what he was up to this time. It would be sad if Mitch didn’t expect it. With how often he got himself into trouble, he’d more than earned the suspicion. It still hurt, though, even if he would never admit it.

Mitch was on edge all day, watching the clock more closely than he ever had. So was everyone else. The only difference was, they were all looking forward to spring break because they had plans with friends and family. Students whispered about it during class, and passed notes back and forth, and loudly proclaimed their plans during the lunch period in over-loud conversations.

When the final bell rang, Mitch joined the throng of students flooding out of the school and cheering the official beginning of spring break, quietly matching their excited rush stride for stride. He didn’t follow them to the line of busses, though. Instead he began the long and tedious walk to the bus station for miles away, and bought the first ticket out of Virginia without a care of where it was going, so long as it got him away from here. 

***

Mitch ended up on a Greyhound to Chicago. It was a full day’s ride, twenty-five hours one way, and Mitch didn’t sleep for a single minute of it. He couldn’t, too keyed up with nervous energy and enough adrenaline to keep any tiredness at bay.

There was one transfer halfway through the journey, and Mitch was looking over his shoulder the entire time. There’s no way he could get away that easy. He was certain his father would come and find him any moment, drag him back home. But James never did, and Mitch knew he wouldn’t—he _couldn’t._ There was no way to track Mitch down to soon or so precisely—he was an average-looking kid that wouldn’t leave an impression on anybody to question later, and he paid in cash—but the irrational fear never left. Only when the bus rumbled to life and ambled its way onto the freeway did Mitch finally allow himself to relax.

In Chicago, Mitch traded the bus for a train, and continued heading West with the vague idea of stopping somewhere on the coast. Maybe Oregon, or California, as far away from home as he could get, shy of leaving the country—that would be nice too, if Mitch had a passport.

Mitch’s peanut butter didn’t get him very far, and he wished he had money to spare on a real meal. He ignored the gnawing hunger, drinking plenty of water in hopes of it going away, frequently refilling the bottles from the taps in the bathroom. He got some sleep, too, curled up against the window, trying to make himself small.

The trip to the West Coast had several transfers, some by bus and others by train. The first one left Mitch with two hours to kill before he next train, so he found a small diner beside the station and wondered in. He got the cheapest item on the menu—a bowl of thin, brothy soup and crackers that did little to sate him, but at least it was a warm meal—and a black coffee that the pitying waitress refilled until it was time to catch his next train.

Mitch traveled through Iowa and Nebraska, hopping from one transfer to the next. Somewhere in Colorado he got the wild, brash idea of going to LA. City of Angels, land of sunshine and reinvention and new beginnings. It sounded like the perfect place for him to lose himself.

Still looking over his shoulder out of some irrational sense of fear that’s been beaten into him his entire life, Mitch boarded a final train that would take him to California.

***

Mitch was exhausted by the time he reached San Francisco. He hadn’t slept more than a handful of hours in the past five days of his journey, and had only just enough wherewithal to get himself a bus ticket out of the city. Unfortunately, all that exhaustion caught up to him and he crashed _hard._

Mitch spent the entire seven-hour trip to Los Angeles unconscious—it wasn’t peaceful or restful enough to call it sleep—curled up across two seats with ugly 80s carpet print, and his backpack make into a makeshift pillow. No one bothered to wake him when everyone got off the bus in LA, and he slept all the way through the return trip to Northern California.

When Mitch finally woke to someone roughly shaking his shoulder hours later, he froze with fear, certain it was his father finally caught up to him. But when he looked up with wide eyes, he was met with the weary old bus driver, who told him to get up and get off. He did, and looked around with dread sinking in his stomach, because he was pretty sure this quiet town wasn’t Los Angeles. Wherever he was, surrounded by trees and mountains, it wasn’t the bustling, bright city he’d expected.

“Where are we?” Mitch asked the driver, chasing after him through the parking lot. He was headed towards a motel across the street and Mitch followed, having nowhere else to go. 

“Beacon Hills, California,” the driver answered.

“Where in California? What part? I was supposed to get off in LA.”

“Missed that by about seven hours, kid. We’re two hours outside San Francisco, now.” Mitch stopped dead in his tracks, nausea twisting his stomach in knots. He didn’t have the money to buy another ticked by south. He’d spent the last of it apparently getting _here._

 _I’m stranded,_ Mitch thought with mounting horror. _What am I supposed to do now?_

The bus driver didn’t wait up for Mitch, leaving him behind on the sidewalk, oblivious to Mitch’s world falling apart around him. All of his hopes and plans—stupid, he was so stupid to think he could do this. He was just a kid with no money and no way to make it on his own.

_What have I done?_

Running away seemed like a great idea when Mitch thought he had no other way out. But now?

 _I should’ve stayed home._ Just three more years, and he could’ve joined the military, or something. Three more years of suffering, four years enlisted, and then he could do whatever he wanted with his life. Now he’d be lucky if he even made it to eighteen.

Mitch fought the urge to collapse right there and let his despair overtake him—he’s always taken care of himself, found a way to move forward, and that wouldn’t change now. He would find a way to make things work on his own.

The bus driver was long gone. Mitch pulled himself up off the damp ground and slunk he way into the motel lobby anyway. He was turned away with a scoff and a sneer as soon as he asked if there were any rooms available. It didn’t matter; if he didn’t have enough money for a bus ticket, he sure as hell didn’t have enough for a motel for the night, even if the clerk _was_ willing to book to someone so obviously underage. Mitch was tall, but his gangly limbs weren’t enough to mask the fact that he was only fifteen.

Burying his disappointment—and fear—Mitch headed back outside and found two vending machines around the building. He used the last of his spare change to get some snacks from one, and swallowed down the bitter energy drink that rattled out of the other. He was still so exhausted—the adrenaline crash left his limbs heavy and lethargic—and he couldn’t afford to stop now. Not until he got his bearings and found somewhere safe to rest. With the motel clerk rejecting him outright, Mitch’s options were severely limited, and hopelessness threatened to overwhelm him.

Mitch took stock of his surroundings. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but from what he could tell, he was on the outskirts of town, beside the bus station and train depot. The motel was probably perfectly placed for weary travelers in need of a brief respite before continuing on their journey.

With nowhere to go and no idea where he was, Mitch hitched his backpack up over his shoulders, picked a direction, and started walking. Eventually he’d make it into the town proper.

***

Beacon Hills seemed like a sleepy little town, quieter than the city where Mitch grew up. There weren’t many businesses open 24/7, but after what felt like forever, he finally found a diner with the lights still on inside, and a neon OPEN sign in the window. Mitch went inside. He was greeted by a bored-looking hostess sitting in the waiting area, scrolling through something on her phone. Mitch could just make out a handful of other patrons, as well; an elderly couple at a booth, a man drinking coffee at the bar, and a woman sitting alone in the far corner of the diner with a book. He wondered what they were all doing out so late. Maybe they were lost, too. 

The hostess looked up when the bell on the door delicately dinged, the glow of her phone screen lighting up her face and reflecting in her winged glasses. Her name tag said ‘Shery’ in graceful script. She took him to a booth and left him with a menu that he ignored.

“Just coffee, please,” he said, figuring he had to order something so she wouldn’t make him leave, and hoping that would be enough. Sure enough she brought him a heavy ceramic cup and filled it with hot, stale coffee, and let him be.

The motel had a rack of pamphlets in the lobby. Mitch made sure to grab a stack of them before he left, maps and informational brochures, hoping they could help him. He dug the crumpled, glossy papers out of his backpack and stacked them on the vinyl seat beside him, out of the way for now. Mitch took the map of California first and spread it across the table, stirring little packets of sugar into his coffee as he looked for Beacon Hills. The sugar did little to improve the flavor.

Beacon Hills was a small pint on the map to the right of San Francisco, surrounded by mountains, a state forest, and not much else. Mitch circled the town with a pen to make it easier to find next time, then carefully folded the map back up along its creases. He replaced it with a smaller one of the town itself. Little blurbs of information and historical facts about the town lined the borders.

While he was looking to see where he was and where he could go, the hostess came over and set down a plate piled high with pancakes and ham. The mouthwatering smell alone was enough to make his stomach cramp with hunger, but—

“I didn’t order this,” he said, not looking at her. He couldn’t pay for it.

“It’s on the house, kiddo, don’t worry about it.” Mitch looked up at her with wide eyes. She gave him a small, warm smile and left him alone. The meal was simple, but in that moment, it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. And the knowledge that it would probably be the last thing, for a while at least, made him savor every bite.

***

The waitress was kind enough to let him stay hours longer than she probably should. There was no one around, though, so he figured it wasn’t a problem; he wasn’t bothering anybody, or taking a table from a paying customer. All through the night and into the early morning she kept refilling his coffee. By the time the sun came up his hands were jittery from the caffeine, and he was slumped over in the corner of the booth, barely keeping his eyes open. The feeling of being so tired and so wired at the same time was disorienting, and there was a migraine building in his skull, too. He sipped his water and ignored it; there was nothing else he _could_ do.

When people started trickling in around 6:00am, Mitch finally went to leave. Sheryl didn’t charge him for the meal or the copious amount of coffee, and waved him off with a kind smile. He was too grateful to protest; he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. He did manage to scrounge a few crumpled dollars from the bottom of his backpack for a tip, though. It was all he had to repay her kindness.

Mitch ducked out of the diner. As soon as he turned the corner he almost ran into another teenager—talking loudly and gesturing wildly and not paying any more attention to where he was going than Mitch was—and what looked to be his father. A cop, if his tan uniform was anything to go by. Mitch didn’t offer so much as an acknowledgement or apology as he put his head down and brushed past them, walking away as fast as he could without seeming suspicious.

The chances he would be recognizes were slim to none—he didn’t think anyone would have reported him, yet—but any risk was too much to take.

Not that it really mattered, anyway. Mitch wasn’t the kind of kid that warranted a nationwide amber alert. There was no reason any missing persons report on him, if it existed, would make it all the way to the coast. Still… better safe that sorry.

Mitch already went through all the trouble to run away. It may have been a stupid decision, but he was committed to it, now. He wouldn’t let his own recklessness get him sent straight back into his father’s clutches. Not now that he’d finally tasted freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Mitch, his life is not going to get any easier just because he ran away from home ;-; 
> 
> I hope you guys are enjoying the story thus far! Next chapter we should be officially introducing Stiles, along with the Sheriff! 
> 
> If you liked it, please leave a comment and let me know what you think <3


	3. Chapter 3

Desperation led people to making mistakes. Mitch knew he was about to make a big one. God, how he knew it. A small voice in the back of his mind wouldn’t stop telling him to turn around and _not do what he was about to do._ But he ignored that voice, because he was young, and stupid, and desperate. After a month trying to survive on the streets in Beacon Hills, Mitch couldn’t afford to listen to his conscience.

For a while Mitch watched people pass by, walking down the sidewalk in their own little worlds, oblivious to anything outside of them. He sized each of them up, unsure of what he was looking for at first. Mostly he was just trying to work up the courage to follow through with his foolish plan. Maybe his indecision was for the best, though. His hesitation meant it got later and later, until the sun went down and people started trickling into the bar down the street. Maybe Mitch would get lucky and run into some drunk stumbling home that wouldn’t remember him come morning.

 _Just like dad,_ he thought, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he waited. _If I’m fast enough no one will notice their wallet missing until it’s too late. Hopefully they’ll just think they left it at the bar._

Mitch’s target didn’t come in the form of a stumbling drunk like he’d hoped, but he would take what he could get. There, and older man came out of the convenience store two shops down the street, distracted by his phone on his way to the parking lot. Perfect.

Mitch got up off the ground, dusted himself off, and wondered over, trying not to look too suspicious. _I’m just a kid out for a late-night walk,_ he thought. The man glanced up and locked eyes with him when he was only a few yards away, and Mitch put on what he hoped was a sweet, innocent smile. _Just a kid out for a walk. Nothing suspicious about that._ He pretended to trip over the uneven cement when he passed, shoulder-checking the man and catching himself against him when he stumbled, distracting from the fact his other hand was reaching into his jacket pocket.

“Woah! I’m so sorry,” Mitch said. He stuffed the wallet into his back pocket, acting like he was straightening himself out, and hoped the light from the shops wasn’t enough for the man to notice anything amiss in the dark.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” the man laughed, reaching out a steadying hand. There was something almost familiar about him, but Mitch brushed it off. He didn’t want to risk feeling guilty. “You should be more careful.”

“Yeah, I will. Sorry. Have a nice night, sir.” Mitch turned and went on his way like nothing happened, his heart pounding in his chest. _I can’t believe I pulled that off._

“Hey, wait, not so fast.” The man grabbed Mitch’s backpack and pulled him back. His friendly smile was replaced by a stern frown, thick grey brows drawn down over icy blue eyes, and Mitch knew he was caught. “Give it back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” _Fuck, I need to get out of here. So much for a clean break._

“Sure you don’t. I’ll give you one more chance to do the right thing here, son.”

“Get off me, freak.” Mitch tried to brush the guy off, but he kept Mitch in place with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t make me arrest you.”

Mitch paled. “You’re not a cop. And—and you couldn’t arrest me anyway, I didn’t do anything!”

“Oh yeah?” The man searched Mitch’s pockets, and easily found his wallet, holding it up in front of Mitch’s face. “What’s this, then?”

“That’s—that’s mine—”

“Really? ‘Cause the picture looks a hell of a lot like me. Let’s go.” He started pulling Mitch towards the parking lot.

“Where are you taking me?” Desperate to get away and having only one way to do it, Mitch started shouting, “Help! I’m being kidnapped! He’s a pedophile! Help me!”

“Quit it,” the man said, but Mitch didn’t. It was his only chance.

The convenience store clerk must’ve heard the commotion, because he came outside armed with a bat and looking ready to use it, and Mitch looked to him for help. “Everything alright, Sheriff?” the clerk asked when he eyes fell on the pair of them. Mitch’s heart sank. _He really is a cop._

“Yeah, Lenny, just got a little thief to deal with. Nothing to worry about.”

“Alright, carry on then. Have a good night.”

“You too, Lenny.” The clerk returned to his store, and Stilinski said to Mitch, “As for you, we’re going to take a trip down to the station and have a talk with your parents. I’m sure they’ll love to hear all about this.” Stilinski marched Mitch over to his truck. Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department was emblazoned on the side.

_I’m so fucked._

***

“So… the sheriff,” Mitch said glumly, staring at his hands in his lap. He supposed he was lucky Stilinski didn’t cuff him.

“Mhm. Do you know how much trouble you’re in, son?”

“Probably a lot…” Mitch kind of wanted to cry from the frustration and hopelessness settling over him. It was stupid to think he could’ve ever gotten away with it. He was reckless, and now look at him. All the Sheriff would have to do was look him up to find the missing child report—he knew the school would’ve made one by now, it’s been too long for him to keep believing otherwise.

The Sheriff would no doubt call his father to come get him, probably thinking he was doing the right thing. Like Mitch was just another spoiled brat running away from home for no good reason. Everything he’s been through, all he did to get away, would be for nothing. Mitch didn’t even know what his father would do to him for this, but he knew he didn’t want to find out. Next time he saw his father… it would be bad. Worse than anything James has done before. He would be _furious_ at Mitch for getting the cops involved.

Rather than take him directly to the sheriff’s station, though, the Sheriff drove past and pulled into a Denny’s parking lot just down the street.

“Look,” he said, turning around to face Mitch. “I don’t like booking kids. You made a stupid decision trying to steal from me tonight, but by the looks of you, I don’t think you were doing it just for the hell of it, were you?”

“No, sir.”

“Come on.” The Sheriff got out of the truck, and opened Mitch’s door when he didn’t follow suit. “You must be hungry. Do you want something to eat or not?” Reluctantly, Mitch followed the man into the diner. After they ordered, the Sheriff crossed his arms on the table and leveled Mitch with a steady, cool gaze. Mitch squirmed under the scrutiny, staring down at the table. It felt like the Sheriff was looking _through_ him.

“How old are you; fifteen, sixteen years old?” When Mitch didn’t say anything, he asked instead, “Where are your parents, son?”

“Don’t have any,” Mitch mumbled. It didn’t even feel like a lie; his father had never been anything more than a bastard sperm donor. Certainly never a _parent_. For all intents and purposes, Mitch has spent the last fifteen years raising himself.

“Did you run away?” The Sheriff asked, nodding to the beat-up backpack in the booth next to Mitch.

Mitch nodded.

“Why?”

This time Mitch shrugged; he didn’t want to talk.

“I’ve got a son your age,” The Sheriff said. “He goes around causing all kinds of hell, and God knows he’s got no respect for authority unless it suits him. He’s a good kid, though.”

“Good for him.”

“I’m sure you’re a good kid, too, just down on your luck.”

Mitch shrugged again. He knew what he was, and there was nothing good about him.

The Sheriff rapped his knuckles on the table. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever met a teenager as quiet as you. My son never stops talking, even when he’s in trouble. He always tries to talk himself out of it—usually doesn’t succeed, but he tries. Will you give me something to call you, at least?”

He thought about lying, but why bother? His first name and approximate age wouldn’t be enough to find the missing report. “It’s Mitch,” he finally said.

“What were you running away from, Mitch? A bad foster home?”

“Sure, you could say that.”

“Why run? There are systems in place to help you.”

“The system doesn’t help kids like me.” Mitch knew he wasn’t the kind of kid anyone would want. Not with his record in school, and he was on the way to a criminal record if he wasn’t careful. He had no prospects in life. Nobody would miss him if they even noticed he left, and anyone that did would probably be relieved to have him gone.

“No one can help if you don’t ask for it,” the Sheriff said, still giving him that _look._ All kind and sympathetic, like he expected Mitch to reach out now, ask for the help that he was clearly offering. But Mitch didn’t need his help. The Sheriff was the last person that could help him.

“I can take care of myself.”

“You sure about that?” he asked doubtfully.

“Yeah, I am. I always have.” Mitch learned early on that he couldn’t trust anyone else to take care of him. He could only rely on himself.

“Alright,” the Sheriff conceded, as the waitress came over with their food; burgers and piles of fries, and a chocolate milkshake that John ordered, but slid across the table to Mitch. “Eat up, you need all the calories you can get, kiddo.”

***

After dinner, the Sheriff paid and left a tip, then gave Mitch the rest of the cash in his wallet as they headed back to his truck.

“What’s this for?” Mitch asked, confused.

“You need it more than I do.”

“… Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now, I’ve got one more thing to show you before I let you go.” This time he let Mitch ride up front, and he felt a little less like a criminal.

The Sheriff ended up brought him to a shelter for homeless youths and runaways. It had to be close to midnight but the lights were still on outside, offering a warm, friendly glow, and he could see someone sitting behind the desk inside. No doubt waiting to welcome whatever wayward souls came wandering in.

“I’m not going to make you go in,” he said kindly. “But I wanted you to know they’re here. There are people that can help you, if you ever decide you need it.”

“Thanks, but… I’m fine. I’m better off on my own.”

“Alright. Just keep it in mind.”

“Sure,” Mitch said, knowing he wouldn’t. There was no place for him in the system, and if he walked into that shelter now, he knew that’s where he’d end up, sooner or later. He cleared his through and opened his door, reluctantly to leave. “I should go. Thanks for dinner. And not arresting me.”

“Keep your nose clean, son.”

“I’ll try,” Mitch promised. He meant it, too. He didn’t want to disappoint the Sheriff, God knows why. Maybe because for the first time, he got a taste of what it might be like to have a father that didn’t hate him. He was convincing, too. He actually seemed like he cared.

 _Maybe he does,_ Mitch thought, then scoffed. _Yeah, right._

Mitch took his backpack from the footwell and finally climbed out of the trust. He waved the Sheriff off, watching him turn around and drive back home to his happy family. As the taillights faded in the distance, Mitch trudged off into the night.

***

John came home later than he’d meant to, but Stiles was still predictably awake, making a snack for himself in the kitchen.

“Hey, daddy-o,” Stiles called over his shoulder.

“Hey, kiddo. What are you doing still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” John wasn’t surprised. Stiles had always had a hard time sleeping—between his active mind and his later ADHD diagnosis, he never seemed to settle—and the insomnia had only gotten worse when he started at Beacon Hills High School last fall. From the stress probably. John remembered his own days in high school, and they were far from a walk in the park. Especially that first year of adjusting to how different it was from junior high.

John joined him in the kitchen and pulled Stiles into a hug that he happily—if awkwardly—returned. “Uh, dad? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am, don’t worry,” John said, his voice thick. “I just love you, is all.”

“I love you too, dad.” Stiles squirmed away to look at his dad, frowning at him with concern. He had the same little furrow between his brows like Claudia used to get when she looked at him like that. John could see so much of her in Stiles, all the best parts. “Everything alright?”

“Of course, kiddo.” John ruffled his hair and smiled.

It was hard not to see Stiles is someone like Mitch. He was a father before he was a cop, and it broke his heart to see someone so young handed such a bad hand in life. He couldn’t help thinking how easy it would be for his own son to end up in a bad situation, with nowhere to go, and he never wanted to take it for granted that Stiles was safe, with a loving family and a hole he could always return to. It was something John couldn’t count on growing up, something Mitch didn’t have now. He hoped Stiles didn’t take it for granted, either. “I’m off to bed. Try not to stay up too late, it’s a school night.”

“Okay.” Still frowning after him, Stiles watched his father head upstairs. “Dad?” he called when John was halfway up the stairs. “Was it a case?”

“Sort of,” John said, with a tired smile. Stiles was too smart for his own good, able to pinpoint what was bothering him like it was nothing.

“Was it bad?”

“It’s rarely ever good, son.”

***

In the morning Mitch wandered around the town until he found a 99 Cent store, and headed inside. He didn’t have much, but he hoped the forty dollars the Sheriff gave him would be enough to buy some essentials, to make living on the streets a little more bearable.

He was almost out of toothpaste so he got more of that first, and a small bottle of Listerine. Keeping his mouth clean helped him feel a little more human. While in the toiletries isle, he also found travel size bottles of shampoo and conditioner. He got some generic brand, two bottles of each—he didn’t know how far they would last him—so he could wash the oil and grit out of his hair, whenever he got a chance.

For a while he walked aimlessly up and down the aisles, staying out of the elements. It was windy outside, and the grey sky looked like it would open any second, ready to pour down on him. _Maybe I should get an umbrella…_ Mitch didn’t. It would be a waste of money.

He collected an aluminum water bottle, since the plastic Dasani bottles he’d brought from home were wearing thin. It was larger, too, so he wouldn’t have to refill it as often. Finding a business that would let him in long enough to get some water was getting harder the longer he was on the streets. He tried to ignore the pang of hurt every time he was turned away out of hand, but it was wearing on him.

Doing his best to keep a running tally in his head—and trying to leave a couple dollars’ room for the sales tax—Mitch gathered an armful of food from the snack aisle. He tried to be smart about it, getting beef jerky and small packets of peanut butter and tuna, and some protein bars. Things that would have at least some amount of nutrition.

Mitch wished he could get some clothes. His own, already in poor condition before he left, were wearing through. But when it came down to a decision between new clothes and being able to eat something that didn’t come out of the trash, well, it was no decision at all.

On his way to the register Mitch did spot a small sewing kit, barely bigger than a deck of cards, and picked that up as well. He could learn to mend the holes in his clothes if he had to. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it would have to do.

The cashier didn’t look at him twice when Mitch dropped his supplies on the counter and fished the money out of his shoe—kept there out of paranoia his backpack would end up lost or stolen—only asking him if he wanted any bags. He did not.

The total came out to $41.23. With a sigh, Mitch put back the candy bar he’d added at the last second, and handed over the money. His change was a quarter and a single penny.

 _I hope it’s lucky,_ Mitch thought as he took it. He swept everything into his backpack and left with a mumbled, “Thank you,” to the cashier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Mitch ;_: I promise I'll let him have something nice eventually... but not today. And probably not anytime soon >: ) 
> 
> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> It might be a week or two before the next update while I get the story figured out. I have the main points plotted out, but I've reached a point where I think it might be better to write a few chapters before continuing, in case I think of some scenes I'd like to add to earlier chapters. We'll see. But as usual I'll be ranting and raving about the story on tumblr! @the-cookie-of-doom


	4. Chapter 4

Mitch’s usual haunt was the alley behind a café. Some indie hipster place that smelled like freshly ground coffee and baked goods, and a faint scent of grass. He liked it because it masked the underlying stench of garbage all around him, and sometimes he could get some of the stale bread and pastries that were thrown out at the end of the day, perfectly good to someone like him. It was always a competition between him and the feral gray cat that also called the alley home.

The managers always chased him off when they caught him digging through the trash, and Mitch wanted to yell at them, “I don’t want me here, either!” He wasn’t there by choice. This was the life he’d chosen for himself, but it wasn’t the one he wanted.

Mitch was forced to leave for good when the manager threatened to call the cops on him one night. He didn’t want to meet the Sheriff again, no matter how kind he’d been; Mitch had no doubt the man would take him back to the shelter, and he might not let Mitch walk away a second time.

And if it wasn’t him who came, well, Mitch _definitely_ didn’t want to run into a deputy that wouldn’t be so sympathetic to his situation. While a night or two in jail might mean a safe bed and warm meals, it also meant a phone call to either his father or Child Protective Services. Neither were good options.

So, Mitch left the alley he’s called home these past weeks, and searched for a new place to sleep for a while. Hopefully one where he wouldn’t be run off with a broom for the simple crime of trying to survive.

Mitch ended up in a park farther from the town’s center than the café had been. He wasn’t stupid enough to even consider sleeping on one of the wrought-iron benches—he knew better than that. Some middle-class resident with a tasteful minivan and a Student of the Month bumper sticker would take one look at him and be on the phone to the cops a second later. No, Mitch would have to find a more secluded place to sleep tonight.

Nightfall was an hour or two away, though. For now, Mitch went and sat on one of the swings, dropping his backpack beside one of the support beams. He kicked himself back and forth, the chains creaking above his head. The sound was eerie in the empty park, this late in the evening, with the sun swiftly setting over the horizon.

There was a park near his house back in Virginia, too, at the end of the street. The place was old, one of those parks made entirely out of welded metal beams over beige sand pits. Nothing like the brightly colored, plastic playground in front of Mitch now, with it’s soft and environmentally friendly recycled-rubber ground. No, his old neighborhood couldn’t afford something like that. Hell, no one even bothered with the upkeep anymore by the time Mitch used to go there. It was always overrun with weeds and stickery bushes, the jungle gyms flaking with rust in places, and the occasional snake lurking in the long grass.

Mitch spent a lot of time there during the summer, when he didn’t have school to keep him away from home. He could spend entire days beneath the shade trees around the park listening to the other kids play. He never joined in. He wanted to, sometimes, but he never did.

Then one day a woman noticed him sitting all alone and came to sit with him while she watcher her daughter play. She noticed the bruising on his face—old and violently purple where it mottled over his jaw—and his scraped cheek, his split lip. She asked him what happened and didn’t believe him when he said he fell off the monkey bars. He had been eleven years old. It wasn’t the first time his father beat him, or the last. Mitch could no longer remember what he’d done to earn it that time.

The woman walked him home—to make sure he got home safe, she said—and the cops came to his house that night. Unlike the woman, they did believe his story about falling; they had to. There was no proof otherwise, and why would a kid lie, anyway, right? After the cops left, James didn’t even wait an hour before giving Mitch more bruises to lie about. He stopped going to the park. 

That’s why he didn’t want help. Whenever adults tried to _help_ him, they only made his life worse. That woman from the park probably thought she was doing the right thing, getting the cops involved like that, but all she did was get him hurt again. Mitch learned from a very young age that he couldn’t trust anyone to protect him. Even when someone had good intentions, it always ended in Mitch beaten black and blue.

Mitch sat on the swing and watched the sun slowly set, and wished he could’ve been one of those carefree kids at the park, playing and laughing without a worry in the world.

The sun fell below the horizon, leaving the sky painted a warm sherbet of orange and pink, with darker shades of purple and indigo towards the east. Fluffy white clouds dotted the sky. It was quiet and peaceful, and for a while, Mitch could pretend the world was a kinder place. But eventually he had to push himself to his feet and gather his backpack to search for a place to sleep; he wouldn’t have the light for much longer.

That ratty old backpack, the same one he’s used for as long as he could remember, was his only constant in life. How sad was it that it was the only thing he could count on from day to day.

Mitch dejectedly trudged his way towards a copse of trees at the back of the park. They were clustered thickly together, hopefully enough to offer some protection, and keep him from sight until morning. There was just enough light left for him to find one with a wide base and a nest of roots weaving through the ground.

He sprawled out on the ground and leaned back against the tree while he dug a protein bar out of his bag. It was supposed to taste like a birthday cake, apparently, but it didn’t. All Mitch tasted was chalk. It left his mouth dry, even as he tried to work up some saliva to swallow; he didn’t have any water.

When the sky finally went dark Mitch curled up against the base of the tree, using his backpack as a pillow. It was lumpy and uncomfortable but better than nothing. _Out of sight, out of mind,_ he thought, trying to make himself small in the hopes that he wouldn’t be seen. At least the nights were warm now with summer rolling in. Small mercies.

***

The rising sun woke Mitch early in the morning.

 _God, that’s the worst part about sleeping out here._ Mitch snorted. _If only._ He _wished_ that was the worst of his problems. Still, Mitch would much rather sleep for a few more hours, but he couldn’t risk anyone spotting him.

Mitch got up and stretched with a long yawn, popping his back. He could feel the bruises all down his left side, from shoulder to knee, where the uneven roots had dug into him all night. At least in the alley the ground was flat and mostly even. One night out here was enough to leave his body aching and sore. It felt like he’s gotten his ass kicked six ways to Sunday. Again. _Yeah, nothing new about that._

He made his way back to the park, taking one of the swings again. It was too early for anyone else to be out and about, probably around 6:00am. He had no watch so he couldn’t be certain, but the exact time didn’t matter, so long as he was alone. Mitch took out one of the pamphlets he’d gotten from the motel weeks ago, creased and crumpled and having lost its gloss, and read through it. It was the one about the town’s history. Mitch already had it practically memorized—he didn’t have anything else to do to occupy his mind—but he flipped through it anyway.

Beacon Hills was founded was back in the day as a logging town, and the founding family, the Hales, actually still lived there. The town also had some interesting protected wildlife in Preserve—no wolves, though, California apparently only had coyotes. And bears. Mitch always made sure to keep his distance from the Preserve, just in case; a bear attack was the last thing he needed. _At least it would put me out of my misery._ The pamphlet also claimed the Preserve was a hotspot for Bigfoot sightings.

Mitch read through his collection of pamphlets and brochures until people started trickling into the park. Runners up way too early, followed by parents out for a morning walk, pushing young children in strollers, talking quietly amongst themselves as they enjoyed the morning. Mitch packed up his things and made himself scarce before he started getting looks of suspicion or disgust from the Real Housewives of Beacon Hills. God forbid he mind his own business anywhere in their sight.

***

Lacrosse practice always started with laps around the field to warm up, and Stiles was miles behind the rest of his teammates. He’d always hated running. Scott was even worse with his asthma, but he was a few paces ahead of him, determined to push himself to his limit. He wanted to make it off the bench at least _once_ this season, and it hasn’t happened yet. Stiles could hear him puffing for desperate breaths even from five paces behind.

Stiles caught up to Scott just in time for Coach to call for a break. The rest of the team had reached their starting point by the bleachers—how many laps was that, five? Six?—but he and Scott still had a long way to go before they could stop.

“Y’know,” Stiles panted, “I think he’s actually trying to kill us. Weed out the weak, or something.” Stiles definitely felt weak. _God, my lungs are going to explode._

“Probably,” Scott agreed. He looked like hell, but he kept trudging on, putting his head down and breathing through stuttered gasps with a determined scowl. Sweat left his floppy black hair sticking to his skin. Stiles appreciated the effort, but he hated Scott, just a little bit, for dragging him into this.

_I could be at home, with my laptop and some nice Wikipedia articles and a bag of Doritos. But no. I’m running laps in the heat. The things I do in the name of friendship, Jesus._

Somehow, they made it without dying. Stiles still _felt_ like he was, and Scott definitely looked like it, but they made it. And immediately collapsed by the benches while the other guys got water and joked with each other, trading friendly barbs.

Stiles had never wanted to join the lacrosse team. He only did it to support Scott, who didn’t want to be alone. Especially not with resident douchebag-bully Jackson Whittemore. Stiles was a good friend so he wouldn’t leave Scott alone—hell, they’d eat him alive—but he’d be much more comfortable in the debate club or Model U.N. Somewhere he could put his talent for arguing to good use.

“Hey! Stilinski, McCall! You two losers better get off your asses or get off my field!”

***

By the late afternoon, Mitch ended up near the train depo where he first turned up in Beacon Hills all those weeks ago. He figured there had to be some kind of truck stop in the same area, right? And if there was, maybe it would have some showers Mitch could use.

It took him a while to find what he was looking for. He had to ask the motel clerk—a different one this time—if there was even one to find, and he kept getting himself turned around. A lot of the land was blocked off for construction, hindering his way.

When Mitch finally found the place, far down the road, he stood and watched it from a distance. There was nothing remarkable about it, just a regular rest stop; a large gravel lot with a gas station along the street, and big rigs lined up one after the other behind it.

Mitch headed inside.

“Is there a shower I can use here?” Mitch asked the cashier; an older man with a long, thick gray beard, and a flannel shirt rolled up over equally thick forearms. Mitch kept his distance so the mountainous difference in height didn’t feel so severe.

“Sure,” he said without looking up from the Bejeweled game on his phone.

“Do I have to pay?”

“Nope, free to use.” The guy flicked his eyes up and gave Mitch a skeptical once over. No doubt Mitch was decades younger than his usual clientele. “You hitchhiking, or something?”

“Obviously.”

“Hmph. Showers are outside, around back.” _Of course they were._ “Watch yourself out there, kid,” the man said to his retreating back.

“I always do.”

Mitch circled around to the back of the gas station. Even in the middle of the day it looked dubious. _Definitely not the kind of place I’ll get murdered,_ Mitch thought. He pulled open the heavy metal door beneath the ‘SHOWERS’ sign, and was immediately met with the white-noise hum of running water.

The inside of the room was poorly lit, with one of the large light panels burned out. The entire place was tiled from floor to ceiling, with age-rotted grout and cracks in some of the ceramic pieces. A panel of lockers lined the wall to the left of the entrance, with orange keys hanging from the unclaimed ones. _That solves that problem._ Mitch took his few toiletries out of his backpack then locked it up, putting the key’s bungee cord around his wrist.

There were several large, burly men already showering, and Mitch tried not to look at any of them as he walked past the open stalls. They gave Mitch strange looks as he passed, Probably just wondering what a kid was doing here, he told himself, and not sizing him up. 

Mitch found an empty stall in the far corner and decided it was the most privacy he was going to get. At least it wasn’t like the locker room showers at school; a big empty room with faucets in the walls and no privacy to speak of. Because _that_ wasn’t psychologically damaging at all.

The shower stalls were separated by half walls at waist height, with no doors or curtains to provide any sense of privacy. Stripping down in a room with four much older men was probably the most uncomfortable thing Mitch has ever done, but he didn’t want to pass up a chance to get clean. Who knows when another may present itself?

Mitch stacked his clothes over the far edge of the wall and twisted the taps. Cold water stuttered out of the shower head, jolting Mitch with a hiss, and took almost a full minute to get even a little warm. It wasn’t _comfortable,_ but it wasn’t achingly cold, either, and that was probably the best he could hope for in a place like this. Mitch tipped his head back to drink the lukewarm water.

This was the first shower he’s had in… longer than he’d like to think about, really. Back home, no mater what other bullshit happened in his life, be it the beatings or the utilities getting shut off at random, Mitch at least tried to stay clean. He didn’t want to be _that_ kid, too obviously poor to even shower regularly.

Fully conscious of the weird looks still being thrown his way, Mitch grabbed for his shampoo and lathered it into his shaggy hair. It had an astringent, floral scent that made his nose burn, but it did the job, washing away the built-up oil and grit ingrained in his hair. It took three washes and almost half the bottle before his hair finally lost that tacky, oily feel.

Getting his body clean took even more effort. He had a lot more ground to over, and no washcloth to really scrub off the grime accumulated from living on the streets. He did what he could with a simple bar of soap that left his skin tacky and sticky, and watched the water run gray over the yellowed tiles.

“Ugh…” Maybe he should try to come here more often, now that he knew about this place. _It’s not like I’ve got anything else going on._ Who knows, maybe it would break up the monotony of his survival-based life for him to make the day-long trek every week or so.

After getting himself as clean as he could, Mitch took the opportunity to brush his teeth as well, and enjoy the feeling of the water beating down his back. The water pressure was poor, but it was bliss.

If he were the kind of person to plan for the future, to think about college and careers and houses, having a bathroom with a really nice shower would be at the top of the list. He wasn’t that type of person, though. Daydreaming about some idyllic future he would never get to experience was a waste of his time and energy. He was depressed enough without reminding himself what he could never have.

Mitch spit out the toothpaste, watched the white froth land between his feet, and rinsed out his mouth. _There, I’m almost human again._ Maybe he could go entertain himself at the local mall or something, keep up the ruse for a while. Pretend he was normal.

Then Mitch turned off the water and realized—he didn’t have a towel.

“Dammit.” That was such a stupid, obvious oversight. Of course he didn’t have a towel, why would he need one? It’s not like he’d had access to a shower before now. There were none available to borrow, either. It was a truck stop, not a hotel.

The man nearest to Mitch, three stalls down, leered at him and asked, “You forgot a towel?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You can use mine if you want.”

“… No thanks.” Mitch didn’t like the look in the man’s eyes. Something about it unsettled him—made him feel like a piece of meat getting sized up at the butcher. Mitch definitely didn’t want to accept any favors from the stranger.

“You sure? I don’t mind.” He stepped away from his own shower, made like he was going to come over, and Mitch froze. He could feel his heart pounding in his head, he didn’t know what to do, even if he tried to run, the man was between him and the door—

“Leave the kid alone,” a second man said, before Mitch could do anything.

Mitch quickly dried himself off with his t-shirt, pulled on his boxers and pants, and dashed off carrying everything else. He almost forgot to take his backpack out of the locker.

Water dripped down his back, his hair was still soaked through, but Mitch didn’t care. His senses were screaming at him to _get away._ He didn’t stop to finish dressing until he was outside, hit with the cool evening air. _I was in there longer than I realized,_ he thought, leaning back against the heavy door and breathing hard. The hems of his jeans were damp from his dash through the wet room.

 _Maybe I won’t come back._ Mitch pulled on his spare shirt with shaking hands, and started off towards town again. He didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter~ It feels so good to get this posted. I've been in SUCH a weird mood now that Estranged is finished, I don't even know what to do with myself. But obviously this is the next project, and I'd love to have it finished by this summer! Hopefully it'll be around the 50k mark. (Then again, Estranged was supposed to be 50k, and look how that turned out...) 
> 
> Let me know what you guys think! Poor Mitch is NOT making good decisions, and I really need to write more scenes from Stiles PoV, but I actually have no idea what to do with him yet! Suggestions?

**Author's Note:**

> For the longest time this fic has been affectionately titled Teen Angst, so... that tells you basically everything you need to know about the AU! But really, it's going to be very sweet, and I am so excited to get this going. I'm hoping it reaches Estranged levels of goodness. 
> 
> This fic was actually inspired by DiscontentedWinter's fic Painted Wooden Letters. Specifically chapter 4, when John finds Stiles after he ran away from his foster home. (Also Stiles is called Mitch for the first half of the story, so... come on... I'm too much of a gremlin to leave that alone) It was such a sad scene but so GOOD, and it really got me on a kick for runaway AUs, and now I have a ton. But this one is definitely the best and most thought-out. 
> 
> please leave a comment and tell me what you think!


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